Language

The chant No justice, no peace by supporters of Mark Duggan, the drug gangster shot dead by police in 2011, sounded more like a threat than a prediction. No one knows the originator of the slogan, but that is not surprising. It is a commonplace of the struggle. In 2011, for example, a pair of artists called Mikkel Floher and Rasmus Nielsen put on an exhibition called No Justice No Peace at a gallery in Frederiksberg, Denmark. The artists are ‘united by a common sense of injustice and indignation’. They should meet my husband. No justice, no peace has been around since the 1970s among the chanting classes. Some contributors to a moderately intelligent blog called Language Log said that No justice, no peace reminded them of notices in the form: No drinking. No dogs.

I am shocked to find that William Empson, famous for his technique of close reading, was no good at reading at all. A paragraph of his in Seven Types of Ambiguity, concerning one line in Sonnet 73 by Shakespeare, is called a great example of literary criticism. In the London Review of Books, Jonathan Raban wrote recently about how Empson’s book made him ‘learn to read all over again’ in 1961. As for this paragraph, he had been ‘ravished by its intelligence and simplicity’. The line is ‘Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang’. ‘Of course!’ the young Raban exclaimed after reading Empson’s remarks.

Isabel Hardman of this parish explained after last week’s government defeat that a deluded theory among the party leadership had held that Tory backbenchers were now self-whipping. When she aired this opinion on Radio 4, Michael White of the Guardian did a Frankie Howerd-style, ‘Ooh, Missus!’ routine. Surprisingly, self-whipping is no neologism. The satirical Nonconformist clergyman Robert Wild, in a poem on Charles II’s declaration of indulgence in 1672, refers to the ‘self-whippings, of the Popish Priests’. He meant the use of the discipline for ascetic motives. This was equally frowned upon by the Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier.

‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a frack,’ replied my husband unwittily when I asked how he’d feel if shale gas was discovered at the bottom of our garden. But he did illustrate why the word has proved so good for campaigners. Someone at Balcombe had painted a sign saying: ‘Frack off.’ The word enables the debate. Quibbling about hydraulic fracturing would hardly have had the same impact. In this way, fracking serves the same purpose as did bonking in the 1980s, when it purported to supply a non-moralistic term for the act. I am not sure the illusion lasted, for the parallel case of bunga bunga in Italy soon enough suggested dirty old men. However, fracking positively benefits from its taboo associations.

Two hundred and forty-years ago next Tuesday, Thomas Gray was buried in his mother’s grave in Stoke Poges churchyard. In his ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College’ (published 1747), he had written of gales (presumably lesser ones, scarcely registering 8 on the Beaufort scale) that seemed ‘redolent of joy and youth’ and able ‘to breathe a second spring’. The phrase second spring was picked up by John Henry Newman, in 1852, to describe the re-establishment of the English Catholic hierarchy under Cardinal Wiseman. This was ‘a national commotion, almost without parallel, more violent than has happened here for centuries’, he declared.

‘Planes don’t run off batteries,’ declared my husband, his finger unerringly on the pulse of technology as ever. I had merely mentioned that two Dreamliner aircraft had earlier this year seen fire and smoke emerging from their batteries. The batteries do not make them fly, but are used for lights and brakes when the engines are not into operation. Another Dreamliner caught fire at Heathrow last week, when no one was aboard. The name Dreamliner for the Boeing 787 was settled upon in 2003 by public competition. Alternative proposals were eLiner, Global Cruiser and Stratoclimber. Those who voted for a name were put into a sweepstake, won by Ross Coogan, of Auburn, Washington. He already had some experience of naming, for his 12-year-old daughter was call Kelsea.